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This is Rhea. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Our story today is quite long and we simply have no time to waste. It's about a large mouse and his many clocks and his brother and the wilderness and time. It's called the Clockmaker. Take it away, Hendrix and Story. Remember, there are no pictures. You have to imagine the picture in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. Hello? Are you open? The door of the shop opens with a jingle. A mouse ambles inside holding an enormous clock between her paws. It's heavy, clear from the way she moves as she holds it, as if it's taking every ounce of her strength to get it in the door. Once inside, her ears twitch and she winces at the sound of hundreds of clocks ticking in chorus. The clockmaker is perched on his little stool before a broad desk. He doesn't notice her come in. He's focused on the tiny workings of a watch at which he peers through a large standing magnifying glass. His assistant Clyde, leaps into action. Good morning. Yes, what can we do for you today, my dear? Clock has stopped singing at three every day at three. When it should sing, it does nothing at all. Clyde glances at his WristWatch. Well, it's 10:59 right now, so let's see if the clock begins to sing. That's what it should do at three as well. I see. We'll have it fixed by tomorrow afternoon. In fact, come by at 2:45 and we'll listen together as it sings at 3. Thank you so much, the customer says, and seems to dash out of the shop as if she can't wait to get away. This is common. Customers enter the shop, do their business as quickly as possible and scurry out as if escaping. Clyde has tried to raise the issue gently. You know, sir, I've noticed that the customers seem a bit startled by the noise in here. Perhaps we could think about Clyde, the clockmaker would interject, not realizing he had spoken. Clyde, get me those miniature pliers, will you? Uh, yes, sir. The clocks tick on hundreds of them all day and all night. Every now and then, one ends up off tempo and the clockmaker follows the errant ticks until he finds it. Then he takes it to his desk and sets it right again. The clockmaker hears the clocks, but also doesn't hear them at all. They are always present, and he is both as aware of them and as oblivious to them as he is to his own heartbeat. How do you stand it? His brother retorted the last time he visited. Stand. And what the Clockmaker had said without looking up, hunched over his desk. The ticking, said his brother, incredulous. You don't hear it, do you? The clockmaker had lifted his head and twitched his ears. Of course I hear it. But he doesn't. Not really. He doesn't notice much beyond the small clock parts beneath his magnifying glass. The clockmaker is a large mouse. He has a scruffy coat of light brown fur and small eyes that have become nearsighted from his focus on tiny clock mechanisms. He owns his shop and is not required by anyone to wear a uniform. Even so, he wears the exact same thing every day. Sensible brown trousers, a white button down shirt and a navy jacket. If you peeked into his closet, located in the tiny apartment in the rear of the clock shop, you'd see four pairs of brown trousers folded neatly over hangers, four white oxford shirts starched and pressed, and an extra navy jacket. The clockmaker's assistant, Clyde, is a very small mouse. He is so small that strangers sometimes confuse him for a child. He doesn't mind. He has no say in his stature and therefore feels no need to apologize for it. He's short, end of story. Clyde has worked for the clockmaker for years and he knows the shop like the back of his paw. He does all the things the clockmaker can't seem to muster any care to do. Things like greeting customers. May I assist you with anything today? Just browsing, thank you. Actually, could I have a look at that mantel clock? Does it chime? It chimes beautifully, madam. Let me get it down so you can have a better look. Clyde also handles deliveries. You've got another six inches. Good. Yes. Oh, watch out for the fence. Oh. Oh dear. And he helps customers design their own custom clocks for the hourly chime. I'd love to have an owl hoot. An owl hoot is most pleasant on the hour. It will take three weeks to make. I hope that's not too. That's wonderful. It's for my aunt's birthday next month. He also welcomes the male rat every day at noon. It's a bright Tuesday on the edge of spring when the male rat arrives on the day our story really gets going. Alright. How we doin'? How we doin'? Good. Quite good. And yourself? Can't complain. Although I'll admit I'm getting a little tired of old Huxley's pet wolf spider, chasing after me. Every day like clockwork. Clyde smiles amiably at the joke behind his desk. The clockmaker looks up briefly from his work, raises a brow, then goes back to the clock on his desk. Well, clyde says, you do keep leaving when he chases you, so he must imagine he's winning. Yeah, no kidding. Just a letter today, the mail rat says, handing a slim envelope to Clyde. Sir, it's from your brother, he says, holding it out to the clockmaker. My brother? As he sets down the clock he's opened on his desk, a spring goes flying across the room and hits against the wall. Leave it on my desk, the clockmaker says, getting up to retrieve the spring. I'll look at it when I have time. Clyde sets the letter on the growing stack of unopened mail on the corner of the clockmaker's work desk. The mail rat heads out. See you tomorrow. Weeks pass. Early spring blooms with life. The forest is painted a lush, vivid green. The earth has continued its endless turning. Inside the clock shop, the clocks tick on, unceasing in their announcement of each passing second. Clyde spends his working hours in the shop, then dashes into the sunshine to relish spring's wonders. The clockmaker spends his time working at his desk, his small eyes focused on tiny gears. He spends his nights in his little apartment. He hasn't stepped outside in ages. At noon, the male rat enters with a jingle. How's the rat treating you? Clyde says, knowing an amusing anecdote will follow. Old Huxley's spider's at the vet, so I'm getting a bit of a break, the male rat says with a grin. Just a letter today, he adds, handing a slim envelope to Clyde. Sir, clyde says, uneasiness creeping into his voice. It's another letter from your brother. It has the word urgent scrawled next to the address. The clockmaker glances up from his desk, a puzzled look clouding his features. A letter for my brother. He sent a letter just days ago. Clyde and the mail rat exchange a look. Sir, I believe the previous letter from your brother arrived in late winter, if I'm not mistaken. The male rat, sensing this is not a conversation of which he needs to be a part, exits the shop. See you tomorrow. It is winter, isn't it? The clockmaker says, peering out the window. Clyde blinks. It's mid spring, sir. The clockmaker, seeing the verdant green leaves through the window, nods. Slowly he reaches for the stack of letters on his desk, rifling through them until he reaches the original letter from his brother. Clyde sets the second letter next to it. The clockmaker opens both and stares at the words. The breath goes out of him. He looks at the pages for a long time, switching back and Forth one to the other, his expression serious, the ticking of the clocks seems to grow louder. At length, the clockmaker folds the letters and stands. My brother is ill. I must go at once. An alarm clock goes off, startling Clyde so much he literally jumps in the air. It seems it is in fact time for the clockmaker to go. Clyde stumbles over to the alarm clock and clicks it off. The clockmaker doesn't notice. He's thinking of his brother, who needs a visit, and his shop, which needs constant attention. He spends a few ticks of the clock wrestling with this dilemma before realizing it's not a dilemma at all. Clyde, the clockmaker says, you must tend to the shop in my absence. I'll be gone for at least a week. No problem at all, sir. Go see your brother. Please give him my regards and well wishes. And with that, the clockmaker leaves his shop. For the first time in months, the chime of the alarm clock might not have affected him, but when the clockmaker steps outside into the forest, he is jarred by the incredible silence of the outer world. It is more than silent, or rather less. After so many hours in his shop, with the unwavering tempo of hundreds of ticks carrying on without so much as a hiccup, the forest seems to have not just silence, but negative sound. The clockmaker puts a paw to his chest, feeling as though his very heart has stopped beating. This has happened to him before. It's one of the reasons he hasn't left his shop in ages. It's harmless, of course, this brief disorientation. Still, it's unsettling. Then he hears the small, nearly inaudible ticking of his wristwatch. It's enough to anchor him to the moment he remembers the reason he has stepped outside in the first place. He begins his journey. By late afternoon, his ears have adjusted. He can hear the whole of the forest. He misses the shop. He misses the orderliness of the ticking, the predictability of every moment. The forest is a cacophony of discordant sounds pricking his ears. His brother lives several days journey away, and he feels humbled by the lengthy trip ahead of him. He finds himself stumbling, his feet unused to unsteady ground. That night, he falls asleep beneath a flowering shrub. He dreams of clocks. In the morning, he is awakened by the insistent call of a songbird. The clockmaker's eyes fix on his wristwatch. It is precisely 5am he smiles to himself. Forest alarm clock, eh? He continues his travels through the woods. At midday, he comes to a creek. It is too wide for him to hop across, he must skip from rock to rock. It's an unexpected delight. Dashing across the creek, the clockmaker feels an unfamiliar sense of excitement as his little paws hit against the stones. It's a new challenge, totally unlike those he faces every day at his shop. Each time he lands, he feels satisfaction run through him like a current through a wire. But the clockmaker is accustomed to order, to repetition, to predictability. When his foot lands upon an unsteady stone, he's not practiced at this sort of thing enough. To recover his balance. He falls with a splash into the creek. The clockmaker's name is Joseph. It's time you knew this. Especially since he's no longer in his clock shop. Out in the world, he's not a clock maker. He's a mouse. A mouse who has fallen into a creek and drenched himself. When Joseph stands, water spills from the pockets of his trousers. His jacket is a sopping mess. His shirt is stained. The day is warm. He removes his jacket and leaves it. There is nothing to do but carry on and try to put the embarrassment behind him. Joseph climbs back onto a rock. He's not used to this, not at all. And there is something else, something wrong beyond the fact that he's soaking wet. The sounds of the forest seem to increase in volume, filling his ears. There's something missing, he thinks. He looks down at his wristwatch. The face of it has filled with water. It has stopped ticking. He is a dripping, wet, rumpled mouse in the middle of the forest without so much as a wristwatch to steady his mind. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine his desk, his many clocks. It's the first time in years he hasn't known precisely what time it is. His mind drifts to the first time he'd known clocks would be his life's work. His grandmother had a simple wall clock in her burrow. As a tiny mouse, he couldn't take his eyes off it. One day, when she was busy doing something in the other room, Joseph scrambled up a shelf, grasped the clock and brought it down to the floor. He'd taken the clock apart, setting all the pieces out in front of him. He'd inspected each element, turned each one over in his paw. Then he'd put the clock back together and felt a burst of unbridled joy when it began to tick. It was the first time in his life that things made sense. There were answers, correct answers, when it came to clocks. Now he stands in the middle of a living, breathing world. The sun shines down through the Trees. The clouds shift far above. Joseph is in the middle of the creek, perched on a flat rock. To cross, he must continue leaping from stone to stone. He has no way of telling which ones are sturdy and which are loose. He sees three distinct ways to go, and he has no idea which is the surest. He looks down at his waterlogged watch. Just then, Joseph sees a squirrel dash across the creek downstream of him. He smiles at the way the squirrel scurries across, splashing through the water. It reaches land, then disappears up a tree. Joseph laughs at his own folly. What does it matter which path he takes? His pants are damp, his shirt stained. His watch is a lump on his wrist. He's a mouse on the way to see his brother. Who needs him? He removes his wristwatch and leaves it next to his wet jacket. Jacket on a rock. He scampers across the creek, easily reaching the other side. After traveling for hours, Joseph rests on a tree branch, his feet dangling beneath him to watch the sunset. That's the most beautiful thing in the world, he thinks, and feels embarrassment envelop him. He feels his heart ticking in his chest as he looks out at the wash of colors in the sky. How many sunsets have I missed? How many turns of earth's clock have I ignored in favor of mouse made copies? Joseph watches the sky darken into night. He falls asleep beneath the stars on the branch, a coil of fir. He is awakened hours later by the sharp curve of an owl's talon scraping against his back. He put bolts up, scrambling out of the owl's grasp, and runs full speed along the branch, running for his life, his heart an alarm in his chest, until he no longer feels the looming presence of the bird above him. Joseph blinks awake at dawn. He remembers the heartbreaking beauty of the sunset and his frenzied escape from the owl, but nothing else. He's huddled beneath a mess of twigs and leaves. He stands on all fours, inspecting himself. His pants are unrecognizable, ripped and torn. His shirt is half gone. What remains is caked with dirt. He takes off what's left of both garments, leaving them on the forest floor. The rest of the journey is a blur. Joseph runs like a proper mouse, avoiding lumbering creatures during the day and owls at night. By the time he reaches the old tree where his brother made his home years ago, his fur has lost its sheen. He is a large, scruffy mouse. His tail has a film of dirt covering the length of it. His paws are hardened and calloused from climbing over rocks and Gravel. His eyes are bright and clear, his vision sharpened when he steps over his brother's threshold. Joseph is not a well dressed entrepreneur who holds dominion over small machines that tick for him. He is a wild mouse in an enormous natural world whose heart it beats along with the rhythm of the forest. Joseph's brother Jack is asleep in bed, but when Joseph enters, he barrels inside, his tail whipping about him. After days in the wilderness, he's not used to being careful with his movements. He knocks over a vase. Jack's eyes flutter open and go wide. Joseph. The brothers embrace. Jack cannot help but laugh at Joseph's condition. I don't know if I've ever seen you without a watch on your wrist. Joseph stays. For days, the brothers reminisce about their childhoods. Jack is weak and never leaves bed. But when it's time, he tells Joseph to go home, to return to his life. I promise to heal the funny thing, jack says when Joseph stands at the door. As if you'd come right away. After my first letter, I was much worse off. It's better you waited. Joseph cannot agree, but he smiles. He takes a last look at his older brother, whose fur is graying along the edges of his ears. A thought bubbles into his mind. I have tracked every second, yet missed every year. But Jack insists he head home. And so he does. The journey back is like a dream. Joseph soaks up every moment in the wild. He takes note of the clock in the sky, the way the sun moves reliably across the heavens. It's not precise like his clocks, but it's just as regular. What could be more reliable than a sunrise? He makes it back to the clock shop on a late spring afternoon. Madam, I do believe you will be charmed by that timepiece. I've no doubt at all. Shall I wrap it up for you? Clyde turns at the sound of the door and is momentarily speechless. Um, yes. Would you wrap it up for me? His customer says. Of course, of course, he says, recovering himself. He finishes the transaction and ushers the mole out the door. Thank you. Clyde stares at the clockmaker, who is wincing at the cacophony of ticking inside the shop. He watches as his boss begins dashing around, removing enough parts in each clock to stop its movement, its sound. Clyde stands there, astonished, watching this rumpled wild mouse scurry around, leaving dusty paw prints on the floor. Finally, the clockmaker has taken every single clock out of service. Ah, Clyde, I can finally think, Sir, Clyde manages to say. But that's all he's got. It's terribly dark in here. I never noticed before. The clockmaker rushes to the windows and tears down the drapes, letting afternoon sunlight pour in. He props open the door, slipping a piece of wood beneath it to hold it in place. The sounds of the forest drift into the shop. Clyde watches, open mouthed. Then, peering at his wild employer, he grins. The shop is transformed. It is quiet, sun filled and serene. In the days after his return, Joseph creates a sundial in the little square out front. No gears, no hands. Sun and shadow. That is all. The hours inside the shop are different. Customers no longer rush away. They linger, touching the different clocks, imagining them in their burrows when they want to hear one. Clyde winds it up for them, and together they listen to the ticks and the chimes. On a Tuesday afternoon on the edge of summer, the male rat comes by. The clockmaker looks up and listens to the male rat's latest story about old Huxley's wolf spider. So I toss him a fly and he goes after it like it's candy. He loves me now. He sets another letter from Jack, Joseph's brother, on the clockmaker's desk. The clockmaker sets down the clock he's fixing and rips open the letter, laying it flat, reading it through. The handwriting is smoother, clearer. His brother's health has improved. In fact, he plans to travel to see Joseph next week. The clockmaker sighs with relief and warmth. He will savor every moment of their visit. It took me a while to write this story. I came up with the idea months and months ago. It started with just a single word, clockmaker. I don't know why it came into my mind, but I loved the sound of it and I imagined the hundreds of clocks ticking all at once and I knew I wanted to bring this story to life. I hope you enjoyed it. Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed and produced by me. Rhea Pechter, my in house Tech Director. Peter K runs my website and puts my stories in the Internet for all of you to enjoy. Little Stories Premium subscribers, thank you so much for supporting the show. Make sure to download Little Stories for a bedtime podcast just for you. Thank you to Hendricks and Story for the super important reminder message at the beginning and thank you as always for listening in SA.